


outlive

by sternenrotz



Series: rebirth [3]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Painkillers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faris is a mad artist, Rhys is more emotionally damaged than ever, and he dreads coming back to Faris more than anything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	outlive

**Author's Note:**

> picks up where [compulsions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/782022) left off.
> 
> if you haven't read the first two parts of this series in a while, I heavily advise you to reread before you read the last part. there's some heavily triggering content in this fic which I'm not comfortable tagging as that would spoil a good portion of the plot. however, if you're worried about this, please message me elsewhere and I will tell you

(Rhys knows he doesn't have to do this when he steps off the train into the crisp night.

it's not snowing tonight, not yet, at least, but the air is heavy with cool, cool fog, the kind with slithery fingers that slip into his clothes and raise goose pimples on his skin even when Rhys tightens his scarf that bit tighter. he fishes the bundled up gloves he'd gotten at a pound shop from his flimsy jacket pocket and pulls those on as well, even when his fingers are already bitten enough to burn, just like how the tip of his nose and his lips are burning. he wipes the water from his nose on his sleeve and sniffs. he doesn't have to do this, but he pulls out his phone and keys in the number of the first taxi company he remembers.

the dial tone toots against his ear, and Rhys doesn't have to do this. he can carry on just like this if he needs, and he does need, he knows enough other couches he can sleep on. just until he can hold down a real job and find himself a flat, just a few more weeks. he can do it like that if he's really determined to.

'yes, I'd like to call a car, please. Hull central station. I don't have a real address for where I want to go, but I can give directions.'

that nasty new self-aware part of him wonders what it says about him, that he's more hesitant about crawling back to Faris than he is to carry on like he did before. but Hull isn't London, it's much smaller, much cleaner on the inside, so maybe it's the ideal place for him. to carry on or something.

'my name's Webb. double B. is it okay if I pay in cash?'

the world is too quiet after he hangs up, with only a few pedestrians huddled up in their coats in the distance, what's with it being this late and this close to Christmas. too empty, almost, cast in black and white and shades of grey by the gloomy street lights and the windows of the building across the street, and Rhys thinks of negatives of ink sketches. the glowing bulb of each lamp is a floating black orb and the sky is foggy white and grey with small black specks peeking through. small childlike scrawl of a signature at the bottom right, this one is titled 'daymare'.

two figures in the distance turn their heads in his direction, and he buries his nose in his scarf like that could hide him from view.

the bad thing is, the part that's even more self-aware and even nastier, the part that spits bile and screams and humps its back like a frightened cat, that part knows exactly why he's hesitating.)

~

the snow begins to fall when the taxi driver's about a mile away from Faris' house. Rhys keeps his window rolled down to let in the cold even when the first tiny flakes land on the sleeves of his coat.

'still down the road?' the driver asks. he's got a heavy foreign accent Rhys can't place.

'yeah.'

and Rhys sniffs some more. he's cultivating himself a nice bronchitis. pneumonia, if he tries really hard. his scarf already feels nasty on his skin when he uses it to wipe some more fluid from his nose away.

'I'll just tell you when you have to turn.'

there's a weird familiarity in watching the trees and the snowy plains pass by, reminds him too much of the year before, but at the same time, a strangeness creeps in under his skin. the same feeling of knowing he doesn't _have_ to do this, but amplified the closer the car gets to that small branch off the road. he could still say he's changing his mind. take the cab back to the station and apologise to the driver for wasting his time.

'now you take the left turn over there.'

the driver says something that sounds vaguely like 'you sure?'

'yeah, sorry, there's no real paved road.' and Rhys just keeps on sniffing. he feels so pitiable and pathetic it's shameful, cold cheeks heating up with it. 'but you can still drive there, so.'

the driver takes a sharp turn down the short stretch of way to Faris' house, gravel sloshing underneath the tyres, and Rhys locks his shoulders square and grips down tighter on the handle of the suitcase he's got between his legs. he doesn't have to do this, and then, there's a different impulse in his head knowing that, no, he _has_ to do this.

'all right, here we are,' the driver says when he comes to a stop just outside the front door.

'cheers.'

Rhys digs his wallet from his pocket and pays his fare, slips over the last twenty pound note he's got, and he peels himself out from the shotgun seat.

the air out here is different, much colder without the exhaust gas of cars trapped between the buildings that heats the city up, and it's maybe the cold in his bones that makes the suitcase feel that much heavier when he goes to pick it up once again. the gravel is slippery under his desert boots with the thin layer of snowflakes on top, and Rhys knows it's not too late yet to tell the driver he's changed his mind. how he'll pay that fare back into town, he has no idea, but in the face of the house, bigger and looming darker than he remembers, it sounds like a viable option.

the windows of the study aren't lit, so Faris isn't working, at least, but his car is parked outside so Rhys knows, he _has_ to do this right now. and then there's the roar of the engine starting behind him, and the slosh of the gravel when the taxi pulls away and out of the enclave, and Rhys doesn't look back at it.

he takes slow small steps along the few feet up to the front door, and there's still a part of him that knows he doesn't have to do this. if he starts walking now he'll be down in Hull in three, four hours. sooner if he hurries.

Rhys rings the doorbell, soft and quick. so quick Faris might not even hear it. and he waits. five seconds, ten seconds. half a minute, and evidently Faris didn't hear him. he could call a friend, ask to be picked up, maybe try to make enough money to get back to London by train. maybe even call one of his aunts, and then, he raises his fist and pounds at the wood of the door with all the strength he can muster up.

this time around, Faris opens the door, and it's cautious, chain drawn, as if Faris of all people had anything to be afraid of. the look on his face is something Rhys can't place, not sure if it's horror or pity or outright revulsion, and he wonders just how sickly and small he must look to someone else.

before Faris can say anything, before he even gets the chance to open his mouth, Rhys starts, 'listen. I know this is really weird and sudden and I haven't even spoken to you in almost half a year which was when I broke up with you.' he sniffs, at the most inconvenient moment, and his fingers start trembling in their gloves again. he feels weak and pitiable and exposed underneath Faris' wide-eyed gaze, and he bites the inside of his cheek before he continues. 'but I've done some horrible things since then and I can't go on any more and I just _really_ need a place to stay right now.' and he's not sure how to continue from there, too shaky between the cold wind cutting his flesh and the way Faris just keeps staring at him, into him. Rhys wants to cry but he dare not, not right now.

there's a small moment of silence between them, and it's heavy, drawn out further by Rhys' efforts to not burst into tears _right there_ , and his grip around the suitcase's handle begins to tremble once more.

'why don't you come in?' Faris finally says, after what's been maybe three seconds but felt more like three minutes. he's still got that way that makes it sound not like an actual question, still heavy and deep-voiced and condescending, and that makes the goose pimples on the back of Rhys' neck prickle that bit harder. 'cold out here.'

he removes the chain to open the door properly, let Rhys come in, 'thank you,' and still, when he's stepped inside, Faris is hovering behind him like a heavy shadow as he shuts the door. it's the same when Faris ushers him down the hall, too close as if he's literally breathing down Rhys' neck.

'weird to think I was the person you came to when you needed somewhere to sleep,' Faris points out, when he's helping Rhys with peeling himself from his jacket to hang it up on the rack.

the house is gentle warm, the bills all paid, and still Rhys can't help but shiver deeply when that layer is removed, the same shiver that went through him just when Faris' knuckles brushed his arms.

'you were pretty much the last,' Rhys replies, when he's pulling off his gloves and the scarf, all disgusting with everything from his nose, handing those to Faris as well. 'kind of feel like I'd outstayed my welcome with all of my friends in London.'

'oh.'

'yeah.' it's the first time Rhys has seen Faris truly unable to reply to anything he's said, and so, his reply back is similarly short.

'just so you know, I've got a girlfriend now. so you'll have to sleep on the couch tonight.'

'not an issue.' he doesn't miss the fact that Faris has said _tonight_ , specifically, but he chooses to not comment on that.

'all right.' and Faris reaches for the suitcase on the floor, picks it up much more effortlessly, and says, 'she's in the living room right now, so I wanted to let you know.'

'okay.'

and Rhys hates himself for it, but he sniffs _again_. so maybe this isn't as bad as he would have feared, at least, he doesn't have to deal with Faris all by himself right away, but still, he can't help but feel slightly uneased by the fact that Faris has found someone else already, someone who probably doesn't know just how bad he can be yet.

'you can go ahead, if you like, I'll just make you some tea.'

and as much as he doesn't like the idea of being around someone who's, in a weird way, the type of person he used to be, before Faris had his way with him, Rhys wants to stop being around Faris so much more than that.

~

Faris' new girl makes it so so obvious that he has a type. shorter than him, even though everyone's shorter than Faris, but smaller by a _huge_ margin, with dainty hands and porcelain-doll skin and dark pretty eyes. she only looks a little taken aback when Rhys slips into the living room and introduces himself.

'Rachel,' she replies, and Rhys can't help but feel that she _looks_ like a Rachel, too. 'I've heard so much about you.'

'you have,' Rhys says back, very deliberately matter-of-fact, when he perches himself on the sofa as far away from Rachel as possible. he blows his nose into his sleeve, and immediately feels shame over it. 'sorry,' he sniffles. ''s just a cold.'

'd'you want a tissue?' Rachel asks, and Rhys actually feels bad for that discomfort at her presence that's under his skin.

'thank you.'

he wipes his nose some more, and then it's quiet for a long awkward moment. quiet, save for the crackle that's coming from the record that's playing, some 60s girl group album Rhys vaguely recognises from way back when. he half wishes Faris would come in with the tea sooner, and he can physically _feel_ Rachel's eyes scanning him up-and-down, an inkling of pity in her gaze that sends shudders up along his spine.

'how'd you meet? you and Faris?' Rhys asks, after the sensation of being stared at and the silence combined have become too unbearable on him, and it's both because of that and because there's some sick curiosity inside him, how Faris manages to keep finding sad-eyed small-framed people he can ruin.

'we met at a gallery.' of all places. there's a strange foreign twist in her voice Rhys hadn't noticed before, some accent or other, and the accent continues, 'September when he was doing the Compulsions exhibit.' Rachel coughs, but it's the fake type of cough, as if she's trying to clear a clogged throat or choke back some emotion or other. 'I don't know if you heard of that one.'

'I did.'

of course Rhys had, he'd read about it in the newspaper, over breakfast some morning what feels like ages ago. seen the posters advertising the exhibition too, on the odd occasion, but even if the title and the newspaper headlines hadn't been enough to make him feel sick and shaky, he wouldn't have been able to afford the admission fare either way.

'couldn't make it, sadly.'

and then he's out of things to say, and luckily enough, that's when Faris finally walks in with a shaky tray full of teacups in his hands.

'you still drink rosehip, right? Rhys?'

it's cliché and it sends another wave of nasty sensations up his back, but Rhys nods.

'yeah, thanks.'

he hasn't had a good cup of rosehip tea for far too long.

~

Rachel leaves the next morning when Rhys is still drowsy and half-asleep, head so cloudy that he can't make out the exact words coming from the front door.

he'd slept less than he usually would have, the vinyl of the sofa and the flannel of the duvet cover all too familiar to him, Faris' smell lingering around the entire house. it's not the stinking cologne he wears, either, or at least not entirely the cologne's fault; the house is filled with that distinct scent each person has on their skin, the one you'd only notice when you've spent too much time around someone, and Rhys hates just how obvious and cloying that smell is for him. he'd found the one pack of cigarettes Faris keeps in his cabinet for emergencies and smoked two, only when it was so late that he knew he had to sleep, but couldn't, not with that scent clogging up his nostrils and keeping him on edge. there's a part of him that wonders if he's just imagining it, too, or if the scent is that pervasive to his brain that it even manages to get through his stuffed up nose.

and he'd heard them, before that, even through the house's old solid walls, because Faris _can't_ keep quiet during sex, grunting like an animal with the rush of adrenaline and possessiveness he probably gets. even when he'd tried to drown it out by putting on one of Faris' old soul records, Rhys couldn't help but feel that old nasty shiver run through him every time he heard the dull sound of the headboard meeting the wall.

when the door shuts, when the fog in Rhys' head is slowly clearing up, he's idly wondering if Rachel is leaving with bruises on her hips and her little wrists and on her throat, hidden by a scarf wrapped around her neck tightly, if she's got the imprint of Faris' hot breath when he whispers 'mine' behind her ear. his stomach curdles with nausea and he goes to light a fag.

'you're up.'

Rhys tries to hide the flinch that runs across his shoulders when Faris sits down on the armchair next to him. 'yeah.'

he takes a drag from his cigarette, in an attempt to stop that shiver from rising up once again. anything to suppress his body from giving in to those involuntary reactions. compulsions, Faris would call them.

'why's she leaving?' Rhys asks, and really, the question he wants to pose is, _did you make her leave_.

'she wants to spend Christmas with her friends down in London,' Faris says. his eyes are fixed on somewhere between the coffee table and Rhys' legs under the blanket, his hand with the cigarette caught in it. there's something like relief from knowing Faris isn't looking him straight in the eye, at least, but it can't negate the feeling of being trapped under his gaze either way. 'so I didn't want to come along to that. didn't want to make it awkward.'

'oh.' Rhys can't think of anything to say that wouldn't come out full of bile and hatred, so he just shrugs. 'you're going to spend Christmas with your folks, then?'

'I don't think I am.' Faris' big hand reaches for the cigarettes on the table and pulls one from the pack. 'are those my fags?'

'thought you wouldn't mind.' Rhys draws all his limbs that little bit tighter to his body, a movement that's innocuous enough, and still, he can't help but pay too much attention to the fact that he's doing it. 'mine were all out, so.'

'it's all right.'

Faris lights himself up with long skinny fingers, exhales a long stream of smoke, and that's attraction, right there, when his throat works with it and his pillowy lips open up. it's entirely too early for Rhys to feel like his insides are being stretched apart by conflicting emotions, but there he is. he averts his eyes and shakes the too-long trail of ash from his fag down onto the blanket so he can take a big drag.

for a few seconds, there's deep, blissful silence, both between the two of them and in Rhys' head, enough for Rhys to notice how hungry he actually is.

'so I guess Christmas will be just the two of us,' Faris says eventually, and this time around Rhys isn't startled by it at least.

'I guess.' the part of Rhys that's bitter and overly analytical wonders if there's any hidden second meaning in that phrasing, _the two of us_ , and again, he's not going to bring it up. not when he's only been here for less than a day and he doesn't have any options other than to stay here. 'Christmas with two crazies. festive.'

'Crazymas,' Faris says, and he laughs at his own joke, quiet and dry.

Rhys doesn't laugh along. he blows his nose into his sleeve.

~

(they have breakfast in silence later that day, breakfast or maybe lunch that's just eggs and sausage fried up with beans.

Faris actually has food in his fridge now, food and working heat and water and electricity, and that's a good thing, Rhys guesses, just like how the greasy food is a good thing in contrast to his empty stomach, but it's too much and gives him this yellow nauseous feeling in his skin and in his gut. he's not sure if he should call it paranoia.

'so are you going to be like this again now?' Faris asks eventually, when his plate is almost empty and Rhys' is half full. it's not just the heft of the food, but the lack of flavour to it, just grease and nasty texture in his mouth.

'am I going to be like what?' Rhys asks back, and he nudges a single bean into the puddle of sausage grease with his fork before picking it up.

'like how you were before, you know.'

Faris reaches for the folded-up newspaper as he speaks and opens it to the page with the puzzles, even though Rhys is pretty sure he's never done a crossword puzzle in his life. at least they're both equally desperate to avoid making eye contact.

'like a depressing empty shell of a human.'

and Rhys knits his brow, hard enough for it to hurt under his skin, and says, 'I don't know.' he picks up another couple of beans, and through the stringy texture in his mouth, he adds, 'I mean, the reason I came back was so I could settle down somewhere and try to actually get better, 'cause I knew if I just kept on couch surfing I wouldn't ever manage that. getting better. so I knew I couldn't do this any more.'

Faris had made them tea too, rosehip for Rhys, obviously, so he takes a sip, which tastes like scald and nothing and quiet resentment.

'short answer is, I hope not.'

'all right,' Faris says, cold and condescending all over again. he taps the newspaper page still in front of him, where he's actually started scrawling chicken-scratch letters into the grid of the puzzle. 'Rhys. what's the name of one of the major stars in Orion?'

'try Sirius,' Rhys says. he makes a heap of scrambled egg and beans and shovels it into his mouth, and he feels dirty, the genuine dirty that doesn't come from shame or from the greasy food. 'I think I'm gonna take a shower today.')

~

the house feels different when Faris isn't there. like the saying, Rhys thinks to himself when he wanders into the kitchen and finds a note about Christmas shopping and tea in the kettle sitting on the table, “this town isn't big enough for the two of us,” the rooms seem that much less cramped and chocked when Rhys has them to himself. except, at the same time, the house almost seems _excessively_ big now.

what's in the kettle is already cold, so Rhys boils himself another cup with one of the bags of ginger tea he finds in the cabinet. there's a yoghurt sitting in the fridge, too, so he takes that as well, even though he guesses it doesn't actually belong to Faris. he supposes he can just apologise to Rachel the next time she's around, and he doesn't look at the lid before he throws it away. it doesn't taste like much through his stuffed nose, but judged by the colour, it's pineapple. probably.

his brain still feels swimmy with sleep, both that and the knowledge that he's got the house all for himself, a surreal, drugged feeling. he's not going to sink down to Faris' level and do the crossword, but Rhys does reach for the newspaper. maybe that'll make him feel slightly more grounded.

Rhys reads the classifieds and the obituaries and the weather for the holidays, and he drinks his tea and still his insides feel fragile and wispy. his nose has gone back from being stuffed to being runny, so he wipes it on his sleeve once again. Faris had said something about Rhys reminding him to buy tissues the other day, which Rhys obviously hasn't done, so he wonders if Faris is going to return with tissues either way. he really, really hopes so, at least.

when he's finished his yoghurt and his tea and the paper, Rhys coughs up a big ball of slime. feels more like he's on the verge of vomiting than coughing, really, and he uses that same sleeve to wipe first his eyes, then his mouth.

his throat still feels used when he's stumbling into the bathroom, scratchy-sticky throat and heavy head. maybe Faris has cough syrup in his medicine cabinet. or paracetamols. anything that will hopefully make him feel better.

Rhys makes a point of ignoring his own face in the mirrored door of the cabinet as he opens it to start searching. it's enough that he has to feel the leaky tears from his eyes and the snot and water from his nose crusting on his skin, he doesn't need to see it, too. he rips a wad of toilet paper from the roll to wipe his nose on the next time he sniffs.

there's no paracetamol or cough medicine in Faris' cabinet, and Rhys can't tell if he's surprised by that or not by this point. what he finds instead, though, is Faris' half-empty bottle of Suboxone, from that time he had carpal tunnel and had to get surgery, back before they met. at least that's what Faris had claimed, because Rhys knows very well that he eats those pills the way other people chew gum.

the bottle cap is tricky at first, Rhys' fingers weak when they're trying to find a hold on it, but it finally pops open when he twists his wrist just right. Rhys shakes one single pill out into his hand, the bottle reads to dissolve them under his tongue. like acid tabs, he thinks to himself, and he places the bottle back in the cabinet.

he curls himself into his spot on the couch once again, the duvet not completely cold yet when he pulls it around himself, and Rhys feels saintlike when he shuts his eyes and inhales the residual scent that's more his own smell than Faris', feels like he's sinking into a space that's all his own. it's a sensation that's the exact opposite of dying, and he knows for fact the meds haven't even kicked in yet.

~

(there's something about the Suboxone high that's eerily similar to the sensation of dying, actually, or at least how Rhys pictures it. maybe an extremely weak acid trip, a shitty high that smudges his vision, like looking through a veil of tulle, or a wet windowpane if Rhys takes two tabs at once.

the other thing about it that's like dying, he's got this calm, easy feeling all in his head, like his brain has been replaced with a fluffy wad of cotton, the same cotton that's dried up his mouth. he's serene, saintlike, sitting on his sofa with a silent smile like the one on statues, with his messy nose and his weepy eyes, and he doesn't care enough for that to wipe his face. he's just watching himself from the outside, watches Faris bring him tea and force him into some awkward conversation and make him food.

they're having dinner on the couch one evening, when it's almost Christmas but not quite, some sort of frozen-food-section noodles that don't taste like anything (Rhys doesn't care) and only make the nausea curdling in his stomach worse (Rhys doesn't care either). it's quiet, and that's the way Rhys prefers it. he hadn't seen much of Faris at all that day, or the day before or before that, and he also prefers _that_.

some muse that must have grabbed hold of him while he was out grocery shopping, probably, that's what's been keeping Faris confined to his study. he hasn't been sleeping, either, Rhys can tell by the bags under his eyes and the way his steps slug across the hallway at three in the morning when he's having a piss or brewing himself another cup of tea, and Rhys can also tell that it's not the pills keeping Faris up.

there's charcoal and ink staining Faris' fingers and his lips when he says, after the silence has gone on for long enough, 'how've you been?'

'what d'you mean?' Rhys asks back.

'just sitting around the house doing nothing all day. aren't you _bored_?'

Rhys takes a second to gather some noodles on his spoon before he answers. 'I don't care enough to get bored.' and he doesn't care about this conversation, either.

'so you're going to be like that again, I see.'

Rhys cares even less about dignifying that with a response.

it's quiet for a few seconds again, and Rhys throws a glance over at Faris' stupid emotionless face, at that façade he's putting up as usual even though he's no-doubt fuming inside. maybe that's the worst part about being around him again, the fact that Rhys can't tell in the least what Faris is feeling or what he's going to do next.

'maybe if you bought me a TV or something.'

'what?' Faris asks back. and then, 'I'm not buying you a fucking TV.'

'you buy me one and I'll actually have something to do all day. some background noise against the quiet.'

because the other thing about Faris being busy is that even if he's not physically _around_ , Rhys is still more than aware of all the background noises made by his presence. maybe the house is just _too_ quiet, or maybe Rhys is specifically attuned to all the scratches of Faris' fountain pen and the screeches of his chair against the wooden floor and every little cough he lets out, but every tiny noise sneaks up Rhys' back and crowds him in, limbs locking up for just a split involuntary second.

'could always read a book.'

'I don't have the energy for books.'

Rhys sets his half-empty plate down on the coffee table and gets up, slowly with the vertigo crowding his brain.

'where're you going?'

'bathroom break.'

time to take another pill. maybe that'll shut Faris up.)

~

Christmas is uncomfortable and quiet.

Faris isn't a festive person, Rhys knows. neither is he, really, but still, he feels that the house would be less unwelcoming with some baubles and tinsel and a nice tree. maybe a turkey roast. when he's feeling anything at all, that is.

what they do instead is, they spend most of the day sitting on the couch with one of Faris' Phil Spector Christmas records playing on repeat. Faris orders Indian delivery in for dinner, which barely has an aftertaste of _something_ to it, and he doesn't bother with conversation, so it's quiet, save for the scritch-scritch sound of Faris' fountain pen.

he calls his parents around noon, when he's stopped trying to make conversation with Rhys over the last crumbs of breakfast, his mum's family, and Rachel, and Rhys wills himself to not care enough to not listen in on them.

he shakes his dizzy-heavy head when Faris asks if he'd want to call anyone, wipes what's both snot and leftover bacon grease from around his mouth.

'you sure?' Faris asks, leans over to collect their plates from the coffee table with a big clatter. ''cause you can, you know, if you wanna call anyone from your family. let them know you're all right.'

Rhys just sniffs and wipes his face again, tries to make the gesture derisive, put that effortless condescension Faris has into it, but judged by Faris' expression it comes out more pitiful than anything else.

'if you want to call this all right,' he say then, and he wipes his face some more with the water that won't stop dripping from his nose.

Faris makes a huffing noise with the exact type of derision and disdain in it that Rhys had attempted.

'all right,' he says, and Rhys knows it obviously isn't. 'I'm going to do the washing up.'

he leaves with his ever-present stink of cologne and art supplies staying behind, and Rhys reaches for the packet of fags on the table.

~

(Faris brings out the whiskey when Rhys is fumbling with the styrofoam container of his chicken Tikka Masala.

well, he clunks down two cups of tea, rosehip and English breakfast, onto the coffee table with one big hand, and he says, 'I made you tea, by the way.'

Rhys says, 'thanks.'

his face feels steamy-wet rather than regular gross-wet when he lifts the mug to his face, the tea flavourless but just scalding enough to be this side of pleasant.

'I've got liquor too, if you want,' and with the same clunking sound, Faris sets down a bottle of Jim Beam.

'thanks,' Rhys repeats.

he opens the cap with shaky hands and pours a generous shot into his tea, watches the colour change from red to dirty brown. and the spiteful self-aware part of him knows he shouldn't, probably, but then, Faris is taking the bottle from his hands to pour some into his own tea as well. and besides, he really feels he deserves a stronger buzz than the shitty Suboxone high.

'well,' Rhys says, and he raises the cup up with his trembly arm as if to make a toast. 'merry Crazymas.'

'cheers,' Faris says back, in that complete-lack-of-inflection voice he has, almost mocking, but he does raise his cup to nudge it against Rhys' own, without the sharp clinking sound that glasses would have made. and in the same deadpan voice, Faris says, 'clink.'

Rhys cherishes the burn that runs down the back of his throat when he takes a big gulp, both the sting of the whiskey and the scald of the hot tea. he sinks down deeper into the vinyl upholstery, a tiny bit closer to where Faris is sitting and emitting body heat, and he reaches to grope his food from the table.

they don't bother with mixing on the next cup.)

~

later on, after Rhys has left for the bathroom to dissolve another painkiller under his tongue, and after he's finished the second mug of straight whiskey, he's sunk so far down into the couch that he's got that heat pressed all against his side, Faris' shoulder smushed right into his cheek. even with the booze warming him up from the inside, Faris is completely radiant with it, burning through their layers of clothes. Rhys feels he can see the warmth through his skin, that caramel-soft glow he's got. he's also got some trouble keeping his eyes open, now that the record's stopped and Faris isn't getting up to play it once again, and with the heat surrounding him all over slowly lulling him to sleep.

'Rhys?' Faris asks, when the gentle scratch of his pen stops for long enough. 'you okay?'

'mmmm,' Rhys rumbles out, unable to give a proper answer not because he can't be bothered but because he physically _can't_ , head too heavy and tongue too slow.

'you sure?'

Faris' big warm hand creeps to lay its fingers against Rhys' waist, where his body dips in underneath the ribcage, and Rhys doesn't flinch away.

'sleepy,' he drawls out, not sure if it actually comes out like that. 'yeah.'

he presses himself into Faris' heat, can't get enough of it surrounding him, only then the next second it's ripped away from him.

'come on, let's get you to bed.'

Faris helps Rhys stand with one arm around his shoulders, leads him into the hall on his shaky legs and into the bedroom. there's that vague nausea returning to his guts at the realisation where he is once more, even the same floral sheets on the bed, but the drunkenness in Rhys' head clouds it over, clouds over when the world keels over and Rhys lets himself flop backwards onto the mattress.

'you've had way too much to drink,' Faris says, scolds, almost.

he fumbles with the fly on his trousers for a short second, pulls his shirt over his head, before he's crawling into the bed next to Rhys.

'not any more than you did,' Rhys insists.

really. he didn't.

'shh.'

Faris' arm lays itself across Rhys' shoulders, warm and bare and strong, and Rhys feels powerless in a way that's almost calming.

'I'll get you to sleep.'

Faris' mouth is heated and soft with the burn of whiskey caught between his lips, on Rhys' lips, on his cheeks, his neck. Rhys lies back into the pillow and into the familiar sensation of it, so warm inside and thrumming steady with his own heartbeat he feels like wax under Faris' big warm hands.

'Faris?'

'it's okay.'

Faris' big warm hands slip underneath his lumpy jumper, gently, gently stroking and reshaping the hot wax.

'relax.'

the next time that Faris kisses him, it knocks the breath straight out of Rhys' lungs. he goes trembling like a leaf in the wind when Faris undoes his trousers, that stupid shake he wants to suppress but can’t, and Faris reassures him with hot boozy breath on his neck.

‘relax, love. I’ll put you to sleep.’

kiss, kiss. Rhys lifts his hips easily when Faris asks him to, in that low, purry, boozy voice that gets him shaking a little bit more, and a lot more when his legs are peeled bare against the stark air.

'you've got bruises,' Faris whispers. he follows one printed on Rhys' hip with his thumb, but it doesn't hurt. 'why d'you have so many bruises?'

the words are choked in Rhys' throat, between his drunken heavy head and his shaky hands where he's still got them resting on the mattress where he left them, between his cold naked skin and how unbelievably _warm_ Faris' naked skin is in contrast.

and then Faris' hand dips inward, and he asks, 'too drunk to fuck?'

'I'm not too drunk,' Rhys chokes out, but he doesn't get any further than that before the grip on his throat takes hold again.

'shh.'

~

(Faris doesn't hurt him. for once, he doesn't, he's long fingers that know what to do and slow, steady thrusts, and that persistent purr of a voice telling him, 'it's okay.'

'I'll put you to sleep.'

'you're so beautiful.'

he's that hot, hot mouth that shushes him when he starts to shake again or when any sound leaves Rhys' mouth.

'good night, Rhys,' only when he's finished.

Faris' thumb wipes away what moisture there is on his cheekbone, what's sweat or maybe spit, and he climbs out the bed to find something to clean the mess up with.)

~

Rhys doesn't cry then, all alone in the dark with his legs aching and his belly and insides sticky, and he doesn't cry when Faris returns with the paper towels. Faris tucks them both into the duvet and whispers, 'good night,' once again, and Rhys doesn't cry then, either.

he waits until Faris stops moving for certain, until his breathing is low and regular. his arms are shaky when he uses them to prop himself up, and his legs shake too when he goes to plant them on the floor.

the feeling that he’s still drunk -- jelly legs, blurry vision, floaty head full-on drunk -- that feeling doesn’t hit him until he’s pulled himself up to stand. he reflexively pulls his jumper down to his thighs, as if there was any reason left for him to cover up, and maybe the shift that movement puts onto his body is what makes the bile in his stomach churn. or maybe it’s the realisation, the realisation that he’s unquestionably _drunk_ and still unquestionably in this state, covered in his own sweat and still sticky with what he doesn’t want to think about, but either way, Rhys instantly clamps a hand over his mouth.

he makes it down the hall and into the bathroom in record time, even with his legs and torso and head and everything struggling against gravity, doesn’t have time to flick the light switch before he’s crashing down onto the tiles and opening his mouth. the first two times he chokes, it’s the lumpy, obviously-used-to-be-dinner type of vomit, but with the heavy stench of alcohol crowding his head and his nostrils. then when he chokes for the third time it’s pure bile, the type that burns going up his throat and spills out his nose, and that’s what actually makes the tears well up.

Rhys raises his sleeve up to his face, wipes his mouth and once-again runny nose before his eyes, and he reaches to turn on the tap and then for the toilet roll. his legs are freezing against the cool tiles, and still, he doesn’t make an effort to get up just yet, just keeps blotting his eyes with wadded-up toilet paper.

some part of him, the part that’s not completely bitter and maybe a little bit too idealistic, the part that likes whiskey and painkiller highs, that part’s berating himself for crying this much when it didn’t even hurt that much, his throat and nose are only a little bit sore from the acid. this isn’t even the worst he’s ever been while drunk. he spits into the tub again, just to get the last of the flavour from his mouth. the other part of him wonders if Faris could have heard him, but then, he’s always been a heavy sleeper, especially when he’s drunk. especially after…

and Rhys stops thinking before he can finish that sentence, opens his mouth to heave again, but it’s only clear saliva that comes from his mouth by this point. his belly feels empty and dirty the way the rest of him feels, and he turns off the tap and picks a pair of pants from a pile of laundry.

there’s some Tikka Masala and naan bread still left in the kitchen, and Rhys heats it up in the microwave while he boils himself a cup’s worth of water in the kettle. maybe what Rhys hates the most about Faris in this moment, when he goes to pour it on top of the teabag of rosehip and reaches over to stop the microwave just before the counter hits zero, it’s the fact that he’s permanently become Rhys’ first association for the smallest things, that his smell and voice and everything have burned themselves so completely into his mind.

Rhys thinks of obsession, and then of compulsion, and then berates himself internally for not taking a Suboxone when he was in the bath. he lets his clammy fingers burn on the hot plate when he takes it out from the microwave, winces and lets his eyes well up again, but he doesn’t let go. he takes his cup of tea that surely smells and tastes like Faris, almost equally hot in his hand, and he pads into the living room.

the vinyl of the couch has that same smell of Faris lingering on it again, or maybe still, and Rhys’ nose is just unclogged enough for him to actually taste the spice in the sauce when he eats. the food’s hot, steam rising up towards his face, and it burns his insides the same way that the plate had burned his hands. his head feels empty, still dizzy with the booze and all too full of it at the same time, and Rhys looks out at the window, where he can see absolutely nothing but the crisp night sky.

the stars sway as soon as he tries to focus on them, too many of them, and Rhys thinks of ink sketches again, and also, that maybe that’s exactly what his head feels like. a void stuffed with gas and fire and what stars are made of, so much it’s almost suffocating, or in reverse, a white blank suffocated with tiny specks of black. he’s thinking of Faris again, and he shoves a spoonful of Tikka Masala into his mouth in an effort to burn it out from his brain.

when he finishes eating, Rhys gropes for the blanket that’s become unambiguously _his_ , the one thing in this house that doesn’t feel like it’s been tainted by Faris in some way. he pulls it around himself and goes to sleep, and he dreams of the same stars and the nothingness between them.

~

(the house is still quiet when Rhys wakes up again.

it’s the sun that gets to him, the neat square it’s printed across the sofa where he’s curled up, or maybe it’s the dull ache in his head that’s slowly growing bigger and deeper that’s pushing him into consciousness. either way, he’s awake to the point where he can’t deny it and just force himself to go back to sleep any more.

his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, dry and full and all too light at the same time. he reaches over to the coffee table, the box of fags there, and fishes one out to light it up. and he listens. only there’s nothing to listen for, the house eerie with how quiet it is, so he figures Faris must be still asleep.

Rhys sucks his fag and gathers the strength within his shaky limbs to pull himself up, and he goes to make himself a cup of Earl Grey, strong. there’s no paper from today since Faris hasn’t gone out to collect the mail yet, and no paper from yesterday, obviously, so Rhys reads the one from Christmas eve over his tea and what’s left of the naan. he reads the obits and the classifieds and his head is still too cloudy to process the clues in the crossword, so he doesn’t bother with that.

when he’s finished, Rhys wanders into the bathroom, has the obligatory piss and pops the obligatory Suboxone. maybe that’ll help with the hangover, he says to himself, and, if anything, it’ll definitely help with everything else.

he takes a shower and gets dressed, the jeans he came in and one of Faris’ warm jumpers sitting in the basket of clean laundry and his coat. the house is choking him up, even though he’s checked and Faris is still sound asleep, and so he puts on his shoes and scarf and gloves and slips the spare key down into his pocket. before he leaves, he goes back into the bathroom and takes the bottle of Suboxone, too. just in case.

it’s a downright shock when he steps out into the cold, the air burns his eyes and his skin even where he’s covered up. the ground crunches underneath his soles, yields and lets him sink in, and Rhys shivers and wipes the water from his nose. he doesn’t know where he’s going, really, just keeps leaving his tracks in the untouched snow. that’s some symbolism in there, he’s sure, something about ruining every last good thing in his life and not wanting to turn around and actually walk where he’s left his mark. and then he feels that maybe he’s being a bit too profound considering all he’s doing is taking a walk in the snow, and _then_ the Suboxone properly kicks in and fogs up his vision, and also, his thoughts.

Rhys walks down into the orchard, where the apple trees stand bare and covered in snow, their curled branches weighed down with it. between the clinical white all around, the bark is so dark it almost seems black, and Rhys thinks of ink sketches again. many twisty trees drawn so close together that their roots start to join together, their roots and crowns, a big tree made of many tiny ones growing all the way across the page. actually, Rhys feels he’s seen this exact drawing in Faris’ old exhibition, and he pulls the little container of tablets from his pocket to pop another one.

somewhere in the distance, Hull is a cluster of roofs and buildings, all a uniform black and white with the snow, edges and angles and corners. Rhys thinks of Faris’ scribbles some more and depresses his tongue, the spot where he dissolved the Suboxone just seconds earlier. he tries to focus on his steps in the snow when he keeps walking, the crunch and the dip underneath his feet, especially when the soft focus spreads from his vision to his limbs and he has to make an effort not to stumble.

Rhys walks all the way to the end of the orchard, where the fields start, and then back, making another trail of footsteps next to his first one. by the time he’s back at the house, the sky has already gone dusky somewhere between the short winter days and how sluggish his movements have gotten even in the cold. the windows are dark, too, though, and so Rhys makes an effort to be quiet when he fumbles the key into the lock and slips into the hallway.

and then he hears them.

voices.

there’s several of them, sounding fake and hollow, and even through the fog, Rhys can feel his heart do a huge hiccup. suddenly, the pills feel too heavy in his pocket, heavy with how _stupid_ of an idea it was to take them along, and with the possibility that Faris might have found out, he must have if he woke up hungover and wanted to pop a Suboxone to help with it. Rhys wants to take that thought and smother it in cotton and haze and indifference, and he pads into the bathroom to place the container in the cabinet, where it belongs, but not before he takes out one last tablet to slip under his tongue.

the smell of food distantly lingers in the hallway, something that wasn’t takeaway but definitely home-cooked, and Rhys wipes his nose with his sleeve out of habit and straightens his hair and hopes he looks presentable. he knocks the living room door carefully, once, twice, before he steps in, and.

and what he sees is Faris sat on one side of the couch, lights off and curtains drawn and only illuminated by the flicker of a TV, and he feels like an idiot.

‘where’ve you been?’

the room smells heavily of rum, rum and that same food smell. and Faris _looks_ like rum, too, his hair messy from obviously not showering, eyes bloodshot. the glass on the table is half empty.

‘went for a walk,’ Rhys says back.

he takes a seat on the couch, next to Faris, but still as far away as he possibly can, and stares into whatever old sitcom’s playing on the TV screen, but it doesn’t seem to make any sense to him, still. finally, he says the obvious,

‘there’s a TV.’

‘yeah.’ Faris reaches for the rum, pours more from the bottle into his glass, and he says, voice slurry with drunkenness, ‘I was thinking about what you said. that I should buy you a TV. so I drove down into town and bought you one when I saw you weren’t there.’

Rhys doesn’t answer, just watches Faris bring the booze up to his mouth and take a long sip.

‘merry Christmas.’

‘and now you’re drinking.’

‘yeah.’ Faris gazes down into the liquid thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t noticed until Rhys pointed it out, and asks, ‘d’you want some?’

‘no, I’m. I’m good, thank you.’

‘I made spaghetti, so you know. if you’re hungry some’s left in the kitchen.’

‘thanks.’

Rhys can’t think of a thing he feels less than he feels hungry. he folds his legs and then his fingers, and eventually, he asks,

‘can I have the remote?’

~

Faris goes to sleep drunk again. he makes it to the bedroom alone this time, and then, Rhys is left with the smell of his rum and his skin and sweat and his leftovers all over the couch that’s supposed to be _his own_. he smokes a fag before he curls into his improvised bed and changes the channel to some documentary and turns the volume down, and he lets the background noise lull him to sleep.

~

(Rhys wakes up the next morning to the sound of retching from the bathroom. he finds Faris worshipping the porcelain God, as Tom would have put it. Tom or one of his old uni mates or maybe Faris himself, as _anyone_ who's not Rhys in this moment would have put it. the stench of alcohol and half-digested food is already crowding the room, and Rhys' stomach churns. there's the smell of cold, rancid sweat, too, gluing Faris' fringe to his forehead like a cheap wig, more moisture crusting along his cheeks.

then Faris coughs and chokes a second time, and out comes more of yesterday's spaghetti, and what could Rhys possibly do other than hold his head up by the back of his hair. he listens to Faris' breath, big, gulping breaths, and this time when he chokes, nothing comes out but a dry heave. and then his elbows buckle and Faris’ head sags down dangerously close to the toilet bowl, and Rhys reflexively tightens his grip.

‘bloody Christ, you’re a disaster,’ he says, more to himself and to state a fact than to really reprimand Faris.

Rhys drags Faris’ weight into a somewhat-upright position where he’s on his knees, a heavy dead weight even with his eyes open and clearly conscious.

‘you’re one to say that.’ Faris’ voice is dry the way a sore throat is dry, husky from vomiting.

heavy, too, much like his body when Rhys tries to pull him into standing up, so heavy Rhys’ knees almost give out. he just barely doesn’t send them both crashing to the floor tiles when he catches himself and crowds Faris up against the bathroom counter, heart heavy and booming in his throat.

and all Faris has to say for himself is, ‘you’re bleeding _mad_ ,’ in some stupid cocky sneer that almost makes Rhys think he’s still drunk.

‘and you’re in a state.’

Rhys thinks of the surge of strength that mothers get to save their children when he leads Faris down the hallway back to his bed, that instinctive strength that lets them lift cars and fight bears, and he wishes he didn’t. he hates that the roles are swapped now, that he’s the one who’s the caretaker now, and hates the fact that they had those roles in the first place even more.

Faris laughs, a nasty, condescending laugh that only barely slips from his mouth like he thinks it’s too good for the world to hear it. Rhys is almost completely sure he’s still drunk now, but his eyes are clear, too clear when he says,

‘you’re a mad little bitch, you’re insane.’

‘shut the fuck up.’

‘yeah, you are.’

Rhys throws the bedroom door open with his elbow and pushes in. the bed’s still unmade, of course, the stupid floral sheets still messy, and he almost loosens his grip on Faris. but he doesn’t, he can’t just drop him down onto the carpet, can he.

then Faris says, ‘you’ve got to get your life back together. you’re a fucking wreck,’ and he laughs again.

and then Rhys throws him squarely down onto the mattress with his stupid maternal super strength.

Faris coughs, once, twice, but that’s all he does, and Rhys turns around and walks out. he needs a fag and a Suboxone.)

~

(and of course, Rhys ends up bringing Faris reheated leftovers and a cup of tea once he’s had his own cuppa and fetched the newspaper and solved the crossword. he changes the bedclothes and doesn’t even blink at the stains, and he takes three Suboxones total over the day.)

~

(Faris spends his next three days holed up in his study again and Rhys spends his next three days curled into his blanket and watching whatever he finds on the TV. he keeps the door open, so he can keep an eye on whenever Faris goes to piss or to make himself some tea or a pot noodle, but they don’t interact and that’s how Rhys prefers it. he finds more yoghurt in the fridge that Faris must have bought when he went into town to buy the TV, and he takes a total of five Suboxones.)

~

(new year’s eve is even more awkward and quiet than Christmas was, if that’s possible at all. Faris comes out of his study at some point, with deep dark circles under his eyes and darker charcoal and ink stains on his fingers. he brings the rum in from the kitchen, and doesn’t offer any of it to Rhys, and Rhys prefers it like that, too.

‘you remember new year’s last year?’ Faris finally asks at some point, when there’s a commercial break on and Rhys has turned down the din of the TV.

and Rhys does, and he knows what Faris means, too. a shiver runs up his back before he can stop it, even through the veil of the Suboxone. he only hums out a vague response.

Faris sips the rum from his glass, and it’s quiet for a long few seconds. a long few seconds where Rhys stares into the flickering light from the screen, some trailer for some series that he didn’t catch the name of.

‘I meant what I said when I was hungover, you know.’

Rhys doesn’t answer. the regular programme comes back on screen so he unmutes the TV.

‘about how you’re a wreck.’

Rhys still doesn’t answer. he instinctively moves a bit further away from where Faris is sitting.

‘I don’t mean that in a bad way, I’m just. just saying.’

‘you’re a cunt,’ Rhys says back very matter-of-fact. he’s not feeling near buzzed enough.

‘no, come on.’

Faris takes another sip from his drink and slumps himself deeper into the upholstery. his free hand stumbles, fumbles on Rhys’ thigh, but doesn’t quite catch it before it ends up lying on the sofa cushion like a big, pallid insect with its inky dark limbs.

‘you know what I mean.’

‘no.’

‘what, no?’

‘Iunno what you mean,’ Rhys says. his insides itch with cravings for a fag, and maybe more than that, and he folds his legs one over the other.

‘so that means I’m right,’ Faris says.

and really, Rhys does know, he knows _exactly_ what this all means, but he doesn’t have the energy to complain about it.

he gets up to go to the bathroom during the next commercial break, to have a piss and then dissolve two suboxones under his tongue.)

~

(when it’s midnight, Faris insists they change the channel to the live fireworks over the Thames broadcast, twisting the remote out of Rhys’ limp grip so he can do it himself. the screen flickers with the sky turning red and yellow and white, and all Rhys can see is a blur of orange, hostile heat.

he thinks of actual fires, somewhere inside his cloudy head and behind the clouds in his vision, and he wipes his face on his sleeve. the firecrackers hiss and pop and crackle and he feels an overwhelming nothingness.)

~

Faris is hungover the next morning again. Rhys hears him heaving in the bathroom when he’s in the kitchen brewing himself a cup of rosehip tea, and he ignores it. he waits until Faris stalks off into somewhere with his sluggish limbs, the study or the bedroom, and he fetches the newspaper and reads the obits and does the crossword, and he takes a shower.

Rhys takes two Suboxones for lunch and eats a yoghurt that tastes like stuffed-nose-nothing, and he finds some war documentary to watch on TV. Faris doesn’t come out of whatever room he’s burrowed himself into except to make tea once and to piss twice, and Rhys ignores him.

~

Rhys’ first thought is that he was stupid. that’s the rational part of him that thought’s coming from, or maybe the bitter part, _stupid stupid stupid_. stupid enough to let his guard down when he knew that’s the one thing he should _never ever_ do, stupid enough that when he heard a faint ruckus coming from somewhere in the house his cloudy head blamed it on the noise coming from the TV set.

he’s stupid and that’s why he flinched and squeaked out a scream when Faris banged his fist down onto the coffee table.

‘what the fuck is this?’

and Rhys clutches his knees where they’d flown upwards towards his face, more to stop them from shaking than anything else. it doesn’t have much use, however, and his voice is shaking, too, when he squeaks out his reply,

‘I don’t know!’

‘I’m not going to ask a second time.’

maybe it’s that Rhys’ vision is shaking, or maybe he’s not making it up and Faris’ fist is shaking as well, and, yes! Rhys can see it now, he’s clenching it around something, a something that suspiciously looks like a bottle of pills.

‘painkillers,’ Rhys says, voice still too high-pitched and too panicked, too loud, too obvious that he’d let his guard down. that he’d been stupid.

‘you’ve been eating my pills,’ Faris says. ‘a lot of them.’

he’s keeping his voice low, completely monotone and somehow still dripping with venom, and Rhys almost can’t tell if he has to make an effort to constrain himself. _almost_ , because the way the hand with the pill bottle in it is twitching is a clear indication.

Rhys is silent with what’s half panic and half genuinely not knowing what to say.

‘did you think I wouldn’t notice?’

‘did you think I _wanted_ you to fuck me when I was so drunk I was on the verge of passing out?’

and Rhys’ voice is too shrill again, he catches himself sounding like a hysterical woman, and he’s feeling that strength again, but this time, it’s firing up his insides and his voice.

‘why did you take so many of my pills?’

‘why did you rape me when I was too fucking sad to say no?’ Rhys screams, a genuine ear-ringing throat-rasping scream.

it only feels like a bomb has gone off after he’s said it out loud, and just like that all the courage is gone from his body again. he looks over at Faris from where he’s jumped to his feet, and he’s small, so small opposed to Faris with his looming frame and broad shoulders, even broader with the anger puffing him out.

the gravity of what he just did grows heavier and heavier on Rhys, and he waits. waits for Faris to retaliate, or to reach out and physically strike him, or.

Rhys doesn’t want to finish formulating that thought.

there’s wetness on his cheeks, a growing wetness between his legs, and it takes him a second to process what’s happening. he doesn’t dare to tear his eyes away from Faris, and he keeps waiting for a reaction.

there is none.

Faris doesn’t move or speak or even laugh. all he does is stare at Rhys with his eyes big and bugging out from his skull, and Rhys, of course, stares back. neither of them move, and it feels like the moment’s been suspended in time. the piss keeps running down the inside of Rhys’ leg and he’s caught in a timeloop of the most terrifying moment of his life.

and then he breaks out from the freeze frame he’s stuck in and bolts for the door, and Faris doesn’t try to come after him. he’s walking out, _again_ , and this time when he does, he steps off the gravel and out of the enclave and onto the country road.

~

by the time it starts snowing, Rhys can’t see the lights of the house when he looks back over his shoulder. Hull is a glowing mass of stars somewhere downhill, slowly getting bigger as the lights die one by one.

if he keeps up the pace, he’ll be there by morning. in four or five hours. he’s lost track of how long he’s been walking with his phone still at the house. his phone and wallet and everything else, even his gloves and scarves and jacket.

Rhys doesn’t register the snow falling at first. the fog is thick tonight, and the snow is heavy but powdery, tiny flakes that flitter and dance as they tumble. like the flickering static of a dead TV channel, so at first Rhys blames his vision. some residue of the suboxone he’d taken, last night or this morning, or maybe just the cold that’s screwing with his brain.

tonight’s cold is the kind of cold that goes beyond being _crisp_ , a sharp cold that cuts like a knife. where the water has ran from his nose and his eyes, the skin feels like it’s been flayed, red and raw and exposed, and where the denim of his trousers has dried and stuck to his thigh. underneath the woollen jumper he’s got on, he’s wearing a second jumper of heavy, heavy goose pimples, the kind that seem to vibrate under his skin to make his entire body shake as well. it’s the type of cold that makes him not sure whether the sensation he’s experiencing is freezing or burning.

maybe if he picks his pace up, it’ll go away. if he hurries, he’ll be in Hull soon. make some money, possibly tonight. get himself a change of clothes, some fags and food and train tickets down to London. he’ll carry on. the snowflakes settle on his hair and on his front, on his face, and he feels divine. angelic. his feet carry him down the hill all by themselves, feels more like floating than like walking, and he’s got a halo, a big white halo surrounding his shadow on the road. the snowflakes glitter and hum in the light.

wait.

it takes more than a few seconds for Rhys to realise where the light must be coming from, and he whips his head around only to see an all-too-familiar car there. Faris brakes to a crawl, and instead of fight-or-flight, Rhys freezes on the spot.

he becomes one with the frozen ground, quite literally. where he was shaking with goosebumps before, a shudder of naked, icy-hot terror crawls down his back instead.

the car door slams open, then shut, and Rhys doesn’t move a muscle. all he can do is stare as Faris stalks up to him, a dark, looming figure against the snowy haze and the halo of the headlights. the motor keeps on growling in Rhys’ ears, like an underworldly rumble that stirs the ground, and he thinks of demons, of creatures stalking around in the night. his heart’s in the back of his mouth the way nausea sits in your mouth just before you’re sick. the taste on his tongue is what he imagines death tastes like.

‘come on, Rhys.’

Faris’ hand on his shoulder is heavy, enclosed in a dark black leather glove, and warms the flesh in a way that’s different from the frantic, burning heat he’d been feeling before.

‘let’s get you home. get in the car.’

his voice is gentle in a way only Faris’ voice can be, gentle like stroking over sandpaper. Rhys doesn’t dare to move except to blink in the burning light.

‘please,’ and Faris strokes his shoulder, the prominent line of his clavicle, as if to remind Rhys of how fragile he is, ‘come, get in the car.’

and Rhys does.

what else is he supposed to do but to get in the car, especially when Faris grips onto his upper arm and guides him up to the passenger side. his fingers are strong, his hands too big, so big they can encircle Rhys’ entire arm as they squeeze. a tear wells out as Faris opens the door and shoves him in, and it’s his bruising-tight grip that did it, the ache that still pulses over the bone, Rhys tells himself.

his fingers tremble when he fastens the seatbelt, even in the warmth of the heating, and tremble even more when Faris gets back into the car. there’s water running from his nose again the same way it’s running from his eyes, or _still_ , perhaps, and Faris shoves a packet of tissues into his lap.

‘here. clean yourself up.’

Rhys blows his nose, once, twice, until it feels clean, and he tightens his muscles on reflex against the bumps of the road as Faris does a U-turn. he’s dimly aware that the car smells like piss, before he realises that it’s him. somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s ashamed, but his face doesn’t heat up to show it.

it’s silent in the car for the short drive back to the house. Rhys doesn’t tear his eyes away from the side of Faris’ face, unmoving in what little light comes from the headlights. he only notices they’re back at the house when the tyres slosh over the snow and gravel.

Faris throws the driver’s side door open and then the passenger door, and he drags Rhys to the house by his arm once again.

‘I’m taking you to the doctor’s tomorrow,’ he says when he’s opening the door and leading Rhys inside. ‘got to do something about that cold you’ve got.’

and Rhys feels like a literal dog on a lead, even if he does follow Faris all the way into the living room. his eyeballs itch in the dusty warm air of the house.

he sits down on the couch as soon as Faris lets go of his arm, where the television is still crackling and spewing out sound, and wipes his eyes where they’re starting to leak.

‘I’m in my study,’ Faris says from where he’d remained in the doorway. ‘don’t do anything stupid.’

and what is Rhys to do but sniff and nod.

~

(the physical is short and uncomfortable. Rhys lies about whether he’s had unprotected sex in the last six months and pretends he can remember the number, and he ends up with a prescription for three different types of pills.

Faris wakes him up early so he can shower and put himself together, and when Rhys checks the bathroom cabinet, the Suboxone is gone from it. he brushes his teeth until his gums bleed in frustration, instead.

‘I don’t think I can expect an apology from you,’ he says when he’s grabbed a yoghurt from the fridge.

he’s no longer scared of Faris.

‘like how I can expect you to stop what you’ve been doing,’ Faris says back, without looking up from his cup of tea or any inflection in it at all. ‘I heard you just now, in the bathroom.’

‘as if that’s in any way the same. cunt.’

today’s yoghurt is vaguely orange-coloured and tastes like it might be mango. neither of them say anything.)

~

the worst part about the meds is getting better. Faris feeds them to him once every morning and every evening, codeine for the coughing, pseudoephedrine for the nasal congestion, antihistamines for the runny eyes and nose, and then takes the pills back to his study with him.

three days on, and his head and nose are clearing up. he spends the days eating yoghurt and pot noodles and making himself cups of rosehip tea. the TV babbles and flickers in front of him, but the dialogue of whatever program he’s got on is shallow and the plotline is predictable, all too apparent without the haze in his brain dumbing him down.

the worst part is that between the empty chatter of the television and Faris holing himself up in his study yet again, he can hear himself think again.

~

he didn’t have to do this.

he could’ve carried on for another few weeks. charged a little more money, just enough to save up a month’s worth of rent and some extra for the barest necessities. buy himself some time so he could look for a real job. or he could’ve just asked a friend if he’s still welcome, for a few weeks. just enough time he can see a doctor and recover from this illness, to find a job and a flat and loan some money to pay the first rent. it could’ve been so much easier.

he didn’t have to do _this_ , but he did. and now all the money he’d had left was gone, gone into the train tickets and the taxi and this _regret_. maybe if he’d walked a little faster, but the bitter part of him knows he’s lying to himself with that. he can’t go back after what happened.

~

it’s been a week that Rhys didn’t see much of Faris, maybe more. he can’t remember what having track of time feels like, even if his mind is clear and his nose is clean. he can’t remember the last time he had to take his meds, either.

Faris comes home from wherever he was when the TV newscaster blabs about it being 7 o’clock. the front door shuts with a loud clank, and Rhys doesn’t rise from where he’s sunken into the couch. maybe if he stays like this, Faris will ignore him. like he’s done for however long.

‘Rhys?’

or not.

there’s footsteps, into the kitchen, and for a while nothing happens. Rhys’ bones lock up instinctively, in something that feels like anticipation, but a much more sinister version of it. his skin prickles with goosepimples even under the layers of his jumper and the blanket he’s curled himself underneath.

the newscast on TV ends and nothing happens, still.

‘Rhys? you awake?’

and then it does.

Rhys would snap his head towards the direction of the doorway where Faris’ voice is coming from, but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything more than a pathetic nod.

‘Jesus fuck,’ Faris says. ‘you’re in a state there.’

his voice is soft, the kind of soft that runs even more goosebumps up Rhys’ back. he walks into the room with that stupid aloof gait he has, bringing some distinct smell with him, and he kneels down on the carpet just in front of Rhys. his hand’s a big ink-stained insect that lands on Rhys’ nape, and what Rhys feels now is not so much disgust or fear or anticipation as it’s something much more primal.

‘when was the last time you ate something, huh?’

Rhys doesn’t answer, and only then he realises what Faris is carrying in his other hand, and by association, where that smell is coming from. it’s a bowl of soup.

‘you’ve done nothing but rot on the couch for days. you’ve got to eat, c’mon.’

and Faris sets the soup down on the coffee table, just close enough within Rhys’ range.

‘I’ve got a cuppa steeping in the kitchen, too. just a second.’

and Faris’ insect-hand strokes the back of his neck, and it’s tender the same way his voice is tender.

‘I’ll bring you a yoghurt, too. for dessert.’

it’s only been an hour since he last made tea, but Rhys’ throat still feels like it’s been sandpapered on the inside. he can’t think of anything to say either way.

‘just a second,’ Faris says again, and he picks himself back up from the carpet.

and then he’s gone, and Rhys has enough space to think, at least. the soup does smell good, creamy tomato with croutons floating in it. Rhys lifts the bowl to his face to properly sniff it, sniff for _something_. a trace of something artificial, chemical, he doesn’t know of _what_ , but the bitter part of him insists he finds it.

there’s nothing to be found.

~

(Faris stays in the living room to have his soup. he brings Rhys his tea and a yoghurt and then asks whether it’s okay if he eats here.

Rhys doesn’t say anything, once again. he eats most of his soup and then the yoghurt, which could be cherry, maybe, and he watches Faris eat where he’s folded around his bowl of soup in the armchair.)

~

‘thanks for this.’

‘what d’you mean?’

‘for taking care of me.’

‘don’t mention it,’ Faris says.

Rhys has always been a good actor. he’s not stupid, he’s read books on this.

his bones ache when he moves to sit up properly on the sofa, and he watches Faris gather up the dirty dishes from around the living room.

‘I got you another present, by the way. it’s in the kitchen.’

and what is Rhys to do but gather himself up and follow behind him.

he doesn’t realise how little energy he truly has until he’s trying to stand on his feet, flesh held together by what feels like toothpicks.

‘okay?’ Faris asks from over his shoulder.

Rhys takes a second to brace himself on the back of the couch. ‘okay.’

the present sits on the kitchen counter and is shaped like a box. a box made out of glass.

‘it’s another TV,’ Rhys deadpans before he can stop himself from it.

Faris simply laughs at him, a very genuine, deep laugh. it’s probably the most jarring thing Rhys has heard coming from him in some time.

the present is very obviously an aquarium. two goldfish are swimming inside, slivers of orange.

‘I was thinking maybe if you had something to take care of you wouldn’t be like this, you know?’ Faris says. ‘so I got you two fish in a tank. like you used to have.’

again, Rhys has read books on this, the honeymoon phase. it’s a cycle.

he says, ‘thank you.’

it’s a nice tank, in all fairness. a little bit small, but it’s got a decent-looking filter and lighting. it’s nothing like the tank he had at home, but the fish look happy enough, there’s white gravel covering the bottom of the tank, seaweed and a castle ornament.

‘this is… this is really nice, actually. did you feed them already?’

‘not yet.’

‘okay.’

Rhys sprinkles some fish food from the can into the tank, and he watches as the fishes flock towards it.

‘do you already know what to name them?’

‘yeah. this one’s Thomas and this is Therese.’

~

it’s stupid and foolish and naive, but it works. Rhys gets up every morning to read the paper and feed the fish. he eats a yoghurt and solves the crossword and goes to take a shower, and he watches the fish swim for a few hours before Faris comes into the kitchen to cook lunch.

they’ve been avoiding each other even more than previously, Faris spends all his time in his study or out of the house when Rachel is in town, and they don’t speak a single word when they eat. that’s how Rhys prefers it, too, even if he doesn’t trust himself to let his guard down either way.

he spends the afternoon watching the Therese and Thomas some more, or sometimes he picks out a book of poetry from the shelf in the living room and reads until it’s time to cook dinner and feed the fish again.

it works, somehow.

~

( _it works until it doesn’t._

Rhys doesn’t remember where he saw the phrase in the first place, whether it was in a book or scrawled into the corner of one of Faris’ drawings in his exhibition, or one of those dreadful modern art galleries that Faris dragged him to much too long ago. the point is that it sticks in his head, or maybe it’s the bitter part of him that dug it up from somewhere long ago, but he knows it’s true. he already knows that whatever this is, it won’t last.

so when he walks into the kitchen one morning and one of the fish is floating belly up in the tank, he’s not surprised. maybe it’s because he fed them too much or because he forgot to change the water one time. or maybe the fish was carrying some sickness and was doomed to die to begin with, but either way, Rhys doesn’t care. this is what he expected and it’s what he deserved, too.

he doesn’t cry when he removes the lid of the aquarium and carefully pulls the fish’s tiny carcass out of the water, it’s the one with the splotch of yellow-coloured scales on its side that he’d named Thomas. he looks at it for a long second when he carries it over to the bin, the orange seems duller in the bare lighting of the kitchen, or maybe it’s a side effect of dying. somewhere, he’s read that some species of fish lose their colour in situations of stress. Rhys hates metaphors.

he drops Thomas’ little body into the rubbish, carefully, and closes the lid, and he washes his hands and drops some fish food for Therese into the tank and he doesn’t cry. he puts on the kettle and goes to get the paper and a yoghurt from the fridge. and he reads the obits and the announcements for newborn babies and the horoscopes and doesn’t bother with the crossword, and he doesn’t cry.)

~

(the tears don’t come.

after he’s finished breakfast, there’s a numbness in his chest, the Suboxone-type numbness, and he crawls into Faris’ empty bed and he waits. it’s a risk, he knows that and the bitter part of him knows it even more, but at this point, there’s nothing about him that wouldn’t deserve it.

the stink of Faris clings to the sheets, of his skin and hair and that disgusting cologne, and the nausea Rhys had expected doesn’t settle in. all there is is emptiness, and there’s a moisture in his eyes like he’s about to cry, but it won’t come. he lays on his back, hands folded over his chest, and he waits for sleep, but that won’t come either.)

~

Faris cracks the door once when it’s long dark outside and Rhys has lost track of whether he’s been awake or asleep for any length of time. he doesn’t come in and there’s only numbness.

~

it takes Rhys an hour to drag himself out of bed on the second day. he feels simultaneously too heavy and too fragile to get up, as if his bones were made from flimsy paper, but he has to piss, and he has to feed the fish. he makes himself a cup of tea before he goes back into the bathroom, and while he waits for the kettle to boil, he finds that Faris is lying passed out in his spot on the sofa. he feels absolutely nothing.

~

Faris only comes into the bedroom when it’s been another day and a night.

‘hey.’

‘leave me alone,’ Rhys says, up towards the ceiling rather than directly to him.

‘Rhys.’

he can hear Faris’ steps as he walks into the room, feel the mattress depress when he sits on the edge of the bed. that’s about the only thing he feels, though.

‘I made you a cup of tea, here. I’ll just put it on the bedside.’

‘thank you.’

he doesn’t want to look Faris in the face, but his throat is so dry he may as well accept the tea. like by some silent agreement, the second Rhys sits up, Faris turns his head away.

‘I’m sorry. about your dead fish.’

Rhys didn’t expect a real apology either way. he sips his tea with tight lips, sweet rosehip, of course it is.

‘I bought you another one at the pet shop today. I put him in the tank.’

‘I’m calling him Thomas.’

‘yeah.’ Faris stares out into somewhere and fidgets with his hands, and he says, ‘I had to break up with Rachel, by the way.’

Rhys doesn’t know what to say. he says, ‘oh.’

‘yesterday. it was an amicable breakup. we just agree that I had too much to do and she wanted to focus on her career more, so we split.’

he says it with all the inflection and emotion he normally carries in his voice, and Rhys still doesn’t know what to say. the numbness in his chest keeps the bitterness at bay.

Faris looks down at the floor and says, ‘I guess you’re not up for talking. I’ll leave you alone now.’

and he goes and leaves Rhys by himself in the big empty bed. the room seems excessively empty when Rhys stares into it, past the rim of his teacup, spread out vast in front of him. he takes a big sip, and he lets the hot tea scald the numbness inside him.

it’s going to work, until it won’t.


End file.
